Summary: Stiles and Derek have a problem. Stiles is going to get to Derek's dick via research.

*

Stiles comes to Derek's prepared. He's an overachieving studier, it's his thing, so he doesn't know why Derek looks so surprised when he opens the door and finds Stiles with his arms overflowing with paper. In Derek's defense, it is quite a large pile. (Stiles'd had to replace the printer ink halfway through.) Stiles comes further inside and dumps the pile on Derek's one table. Derek slides his door shuts and warily comes closer.

"You need more tables," Stiles decides. "And carpets. Maybe area rugs? Lydia should take to you to Ikea."

He organizes his piles of papers. He's going to do this. (And then, hopefully, they're going to do it, with it being a mutually satisfying sexual experience.)

Derek eyes the papers like they might bite. "What the hell is all of that? Is there a new evil in town? And why does it involve Lydia's taste in my furniture?"

"No new big bad. And the Lydia advice is just the icing on the cake that is our conversation about orgasms!" Stiles does his jazz hands. Derek is not impressed by them.

"Our conversation about what? You could be having orgasms right now, instead of--"

"Instead of having a conversation? Have you met me? I talk. Talking is what I do. Well, that and plan-making. And problem-solving. Which is why we're here!" He pats the couch next to him, and Derek sits down perched on the arm of the couch as far away from Stiles as possible.

"Fine, be like that." Stiles pulls out his list and goes to idea number one. "Are you on Prazosin?" he asks, skimming the highlighted portions of information that WebMD had helpfully provided. "Or Amitriptyline, Desipramine, or any MAO inhibitors?"

"I'm a werewolf. Medicine doesn't work on us. Why does it matter?"

"I wonder if there are ways around that," Stiles says, mind wandering to mortars and grindstones and Deaton and lacing crushed pills with wolfsbane. "We should work on that. You could use some help relaxing. Maybe if we lace Xanax with mistletoe?" Derek's eyebrows lower until he looks homicidal instead of angry.

(Stiles wants to warn him that if he keeps making that face, it'll get stuck that way, but Derek would probably be totally okay with that.)

"I was just asking because those medications can make erections and orgams difficult. I guess the werewolf metabolism probably takes the erectile dysfunction cures off the table--heh, literally," he says, tossing those pages from the small table onto the floor. "So. Moving on. How often do you masturbate per day?"

Derek growls.

"Okay...growl once for 'once a day,' twice for two, three for--"

"It's none of your business. And, not that it matters, but I hate this conversation." Derek launches himself off the couch and paces over to a support beam, leaning against it like he's trying to distract Stiles with his body, and his muscles, and the way his shirt rides up a little bit to reveal an inch of pale stomach that Stiles--

The stomach that Stiles has never seen during sexytimes. Hence, the inquisition.

Stiles picks up the rest of the papers and shuffles them unnecessarily in his hands. "I kind of think it's supposed to be my business, though. If we're...whatever we are.... If we're going to keep doing sex, then I kind of think your orgasms are my business." He looks back down at his papers, clears his throat, and keeps going. "One of the forums said that if you jerk off too much by yourself, or do it too roughly, then it can be hard to...come to completion...with a partner."

"I masturbate once a week," Derek says, "and I don't do it roughly. How many more questions are there going to be?"

"...once a week?"

Derek pushes himself off the support beam and goes into the kitchen.

"Do you mean, like, 'once a week' when we're distracted chasing bad guys, or ‘once a week’ that time you had Isaac and Cora living in your house?"

"I mean Wednesdays."

Stiles blinks. Part of his brain is processing the fact that Derek feels uncomfortable and is trying to hide it by opening and closing drawers in the kitchen without taking anything out or putting anything away, but the rest of Stiles is doing fist-pumps, because lack of orgasms explains so much about Derek's personality.

"I don't usually enjoy them," Derek says, slamming a cabinet closed. It makes a sad whine before its joints pop and it falls off its hinges.

Stiles stares at his notes.

Apparently, he should have researched more.

Carefully, Derek puts the fallen cabinet down on the counter.

"That doesn't mean I can't have orgasms more than once a week. For a while in New York, I fucked around pretty much every night. My dick works fine."

"So...is it me?" The last item on his handwritten Why Derek Won't Whip His Dick Out list is 'lack of trust and intimacy with your partner.' "You don't want to come with me."

Derek sighs, looking at the cracked wooden cabinet on top of his otherwise empty counter. "I might have to take Lydia on that Ikea trip."

Stiles is very good at diverting conversations; he'll let Derek get away with it for a bit. "You should send Scott, Isaac, and Allison. You may not end up with any furniture, but if you put a recording of what would happen between those three up on youtube, you'd be an overnight sensation."

Derek grunts his 'Yeah' grunt. Stiles has separate lists of Derek's grunts, angry faces, hunched shoulders, and growls. 'Preparing to talk about something difficult' is a new one. A unique expression. No list needed. "I don't want to come with you, because everything we're doing is your first time doing it, and I don't want to make it about me."

Stiles looks at his papers, then back to Derek, before narrowing his eyes. "Letting me jack you off after you make me come twice doesn't seem like it supports that theory, Derek."

"I'm not cheating. I'm ending the conversation. You want me to come? Then get over here and make me."

Something about that sentence makes Stiles's stomach roil. He keeps his eyes averted, because he legitimately has problems focusing when Derek's not fully clothed, and keeps going. "I want you to have orgasms with me because you want to have orgasms with me," he says, because if the answer to their dilemma really is the bullet point at the end of the list he'd drawn up the night before--'lack of connection between partners'--then the problem is trust. Derek trusts Stiles in life-and-death situations, but not, apparently, during sex.

Stiles forges on. "I don't want to make you come. That sounds mean. I want to...give you orgasms. Which is the only gift that's appropriate for regifting, just FYI, and you've got three regifts coming your way already--"

Derek walks over to Stiles, his bare feet whisper-quiet on the metal floor. Derek stops in front of him, his right foot on top of Stiles's 'discard' print-out pile. Even his feet are sexy. Stiles clenches his eyes shut.

"Why are you still talking?" Derek asks. "I know you want me. I can smell it."

"Cheating again," Stiles says, wishing he had a way to smell Derek's mood, too. "I just want to finish this conversation before I--before you--before you take me to bed and make me forget all of things I want to talk about. As well as the awkwardness of this conversation, from which I might never recover."

Derek, the sneaky, cheating bastard, gets on his knees in front of Stiles and slides his hands up the inside of Stiles's thighs, until he's teasing Stiles's cock through his jeans.

Stiles tries to talk; the first attempt just comes out as a squeak. "Look--if you don't give me a really good explanation, then I'm only going to orgasm if you come first," Stiles says, his voice coming out in a rush, because this idea is his last line of his defense. "Otherwise I'm going to feel guilty the whole time we do it. And I don't want to have guilt sex. It sounds like much less fun than regular sex. Or happy sex. Or--"

Derek puts a hand on the button of Stiles's jeans, and Stiles says, "Stop." Derek freezes like he's been hit by a stun gun and nearly falls backwards before Stiles grabs his hands, moving them onto his knees. Derek holds on too hard. "Just talk to me," Stiles says, putting his hands over Derek’s, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening in his head. Derek is staring at the floor.

Derek’s fingers flex before they go tense again. “If I don't take my clothes off," Derek says, his voice flat and careful, "then I know that--that you're happy because of what I'm doing. Not just because I'm..." He gestures at himself, like having the hottest body Stiles has seen outside of a magazine is something to be unhappy about. "I like you," Derek says, taking his hands back, "because I like you. You like me, because I'm..." His face, which Stiles has been getting so good at reading, is completely blank. "Because--have you seen me?" Derek says. He pastes on a grin and Stiles feels like he's going to be sick, because he's pretty sure that Derek is quoting Stiles.

"I've seen you," Stiles says. Derek tries to stand up. Stiles grabs his wrists and Derek lets Stiles hold him down; hold him still, on his knees with his eyes averted. "I've seen you without your shirt a lot. Mostly after fights where you were protecting people, or protecting me, or recovering from wounds that I--that I don't want to think about right now."

He's not sure whether or not it's a good idea, but his spidey senses aren't tingling at him to stop what he's doing, so he puts a hand on Derek's shoulder. The muscles are tense. Derek's collar bone is prominent under Stiles's thumb.

Stiles tries to sound soothing and understanding (it's the Scott imitation that he's been doing since he turned eleven, because Scott talks to nervous/tired/angry/confused people like they're kicked puppies, and it works really well). "You like me because I'm me," he says, not bothering to check for confirmation, because Derek did nice things for Stiles for weeks before Stiles had even noticed. "I like you because you're you. Your body's just..." He looks around for a word that isn't 'lickable.' "It's really nice wrapping paper." Or armor, maybe; or an invisibility cloak. Protecting Derek. Keeping people from looking too close to anything that isn't his beauty. Keeping people from seeing 'Nice Derek,' who Stiles thinks might actually just be Genuine Derek.

"I can't make myself not be attracted to you," Stiles says, trying to draw up a new plan. "So maybe we could have blindfolded sex, so I wouldn't be able to see you? Is that a good idea? I'd probably end up, like, kicking you in the kidneys a couple of times, but you heal fast."

"No," Derek says. His hands squeeze around Stiles's knees for a moment, and then he's standing and pulling Stiles up with him. "You like me," Derek says, with a confused smile, like he's won something he didn't know he was competing for.

"If you pass me a note with a Y and an N, I'll circle the Y," Stiles informs him solemnly. "With a glittery pen. And I'll draw a unicorn on the note, too. Or a pegasus. I'm really good at horses."

Derek's kisses are becoming Stiles's favorite things. Derek puts both his hands on Stiles's face and Stiles feels like he's going to evaporate if Derek lets go; like Derek's lips teasing his are the entirety of what's anchoring him in this room. Stiles puts his hands on Derek's hips, then jerks them away when he encounters bare skin. "Sorry," he says, his words squeezing out between their pressed-together lips. He pulls back (again, Derek lets Stiles move even though he could so easily hold Stiles still). "I promise I'm not trying to sexually objectify you."

"I like that you like my body," Derek says, rolling his eyes. "I just like that you--you like more than just my body."

"I have a soft spot for sparkling conversationalists," Stiles says, putting his hands back on Derek's hips, only higher, so he's just touching bare skin, and oh god Derek's moving and Stiles can feel the muscles at work. "This is why we have conversations," Stiles says, his voice a couple octaves higher than is probably humanly possible, which is okay, because that means he's probably in supersonic ranges that only dogs can hear, so Derek can still hear him. "So that I get to--to do this--"

He moves his hands down, fingers spreading over the expanse of Derek's sides, his thumbs brushing against the hem and then sliding under them, under the elastic band of Derek's boxers.

"What do you want?" Derek asks, his breath soft against Stiles's face. He smells like Spearmint. He'd probably brushed his teeth in anticipation of Stiles's visit. Stiles had, too.

"Your mind," Stiles says. He gets a genuine smile from Derek for that one. "I want you to carry me to bed again, because apparently the caveman thing really does it for me, and then I want to get naked."

"Do you have anything in mind after that?" Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head, Derek's hands still gently cupping his face. "I've got some ideas. Can we talk about them now?"

"Yeah, sure--dirty talk is good."

"Not dirty talk. Negotiations. You're young, and even if you weren't--you might say 'Yes' to something in the heat of the moment that you wouldn't say yes to otherwise. I want my yes's in advance." There's something hunted in Derek's expression. Derek's learned from past mistakes.

"Okay. Hit me with it. Not literally, I'm not into spanking. Unless you're talking about your dick. You could totally hit me in the face with your dick. Actually, I think that would--"

"After I carry you to my bed," Derek says, both of his thumbs coming to rest over Stiles's lips, quieting him. "I want to rim you. Put you on your front, and lick your hole. Put a pillow under your hips and see if you can come just from rubbing yourself off on it while I fuck you with my tongue."

Derek sounds like he's reciting a grocery list. Stiles sounds like he's just run a marathon, breath whistling in and out of him. "If you want to come a second time, I'd like to--I had other ideas, but maybe we could just..." Derek presses their hips together and thrusts, just once, and Stiles can almost hear his dick crying 'Mercy!' "Both of us naked. Touching each other. Me playing with your nipples. You doing...whatever you want."

"Oh my god I want to climb you like a tree right now. Yes, yes, yes, a world of yes."

"If I told you to hold onto the headboard while I rim you," Derek asks, still sounding impossibly calm, "would you do it?"

"I've been, uh--I've been following your directions pretty much since this started. I'll--" He's seen and read enough porn that he knows they're starting to tread new territory. "I'm fine with you telling me what to do. If I want you stop, I'll--I'll safeword." He can feel himself blush and curses his blood flow, because he'd much rather look confident and self-assured instead of mortified. "Red for stop, yellow for check-in with me or slow down, green for good."

"No, I'm green," Derek says. "And I want you to wrap your arms around my neck now." Stiles does, and Derek lifts him off the ground like he's a barbell with no weights on the end. "I want to take care of you," Derek says, while Stiles's dick is practically crying about the fact that if he wasn't wearing jeans he could rub his cock against Derek's abs and die a happy man.

"I always trust you to take care of me," Stiles says, when Derek lays him down on the bed and moves him to the center of it, Stiles's hands within reaching distance of the headboard. Derek slowly stops moving, like someone's pressed pause on him, and it takes Stiles saying, "Derek?" to get him moving again.

"You're unbelievable," Derek says, like that's any kind of explanation.

"In a good way, or a bad way?"

"In an 'I'd rip that shirt right off of you if it wasn't your favorite Captain America t-shirt' kind of way," Derek says.

Stiles's chest constricts, because he doesn't think even his dad knows that this is his favorite Cap shirt, and then he's kissing Derek, sliding his tongue into Derek's mouth the way Derek had done to him last time. One of his hands is on the back of Derek's neck, which Animal Planet's wolf special had said was a bad idea, but he can't help himself. He doesn't let go until Derek said, "Take your clothes off," with his eyes glowing blue.

Stiles pulls his shirts off, Cap and also a layer of flannel, because it's cold, and--and he's used to covering up the body that Derek actually seems to find attractive, given that he's eyeing Stiles the way Stiles’s dad eyes meat lover's pizza.

"You could take my pants off for me," Stiles says. "If you want?"

Derek doesn't say anything, but he kisses a line from Stiles's belly button to the waistband of Stiles's jeans, and keeps licking and kissing until he lifts Stiles's hips off the bed with one hand and tugs his jeans and boxers down with the other.

"Strength is already on my list of kinks," Stiles says to the ceiling, because if he looks at Derek he's going to straight-up jizz until he blacks out, "but I think I'm going to have to underline it. Highlight it. Surround it with little hearts."

"Do your feet get cold?" Derek asks, sitting at the foot of the bed, Stiles's ankles in his hands. "Socks on or off?"

"Socks off," Stiles says. "It's warm in here, and socks are unexy. But you asking about it is sexy. Everything you do is sexy. And nice. Nice Derek," he says, like he'd praise a dog. He forgets his teasing a second later, because Derek tears his socks off and then crawls back up the bed and lays down on top of Stiles.

They're chest to chest, and the warmth and solidity of Derek's body is enough to distract from the discomfort of Derek's denim rubbing against Stiles's dick. Derek feels warm, his body temperature definitely running a few degrees higher than a human's--Stiles sternly tells the rambly part of his brain to shut up about werewolf research and focus on the fact that when Derek breathes, Stiles can feel his ribs move; when Stiles puts his hands on Derek's shoulders, he finds a new territory of smooth skin that he needs to explore.

"On your belly," Derek says, after licking Stiles's right nipple, once and only once, because he is an evil tease. Evil. Derek smiles when Stiles covers the nipple with his hand and whines.

Apparently, Stiles is taking too long, because the next thing he knows he's lying on his front.

"Strength kink," he says into the pillows. "Many gold stars. Many underlines."

Derek rearranges the pillows until Stiles's hips are lifted off the bed and angled to Derek’s satisfaction. Derek's sheets are really soft, and Stiles is already hard, so he's pretty sure Derek's plan of making Stiles come without any manual stimulation is totally going to work. Derek's hands start at the base of Stiles's neck and track down his sides, warm and lightly callused, before coming to rest on his asscheeks.

"You look so beautiful," Derek says.

Stiles wonders if Derek can sense the blush that Stiles knows is covering his face and probably spreading to his chest, too.

"Hands on the headboard," Derek says. His voice is less calm, and his hands are kneading Stiles's ass in a steady pattern that stops when Stiles grasps a rung with each hand and holds on. Derek doesn't say anything else. His hands don't start moving again.

Stiles is starting to feel uncomfortable. "If I'm doing this wrong, just tell me what to change," he says, because Derek has been making him feel wanted and Stiles wants it to stay that way.

"No, no, you're--I just…haven’t had a lot of good things in my life lately," Derek says, his hands smoothing up and back down Stiles's back one more time. "I can't believe I get to have you like this."

His hands part Stiles's cheeks before Stiles can process that, much less respond to it, because Derek's--Derek's licking his hole.

He's seen rimming in porn. A lot, because he watches a lot of porn, and a lot of porn has rimming, and most of the times he's fast-forwarded to get to the fucking, which he will never do again, because nothing has ever felt as good as this feels. Derek's beard scratches against his skin, but only barely, because Derek's broad hands have his cheeks spread so wide. Derek's mouth is covering his hole, and his tongue--

His tongue is licking tiny little circles around the puckered skin, then tracing lines from the center, where the nerve endings feel like they're catching on fire, out to the skin that's sensitive but not nearly as needy. Derek pulls back and Stiles actually sobs at the lack of contact.

"Please don't stop," he says, "I'm still holding on, I haven't touched myself, I'll say your name when I come, I--Derek." The hands on his asscheeks squeeze tight enough to hurt.

"I want you to talk while I rim you. I want to know what you like and what you don't like. Tell me more or less, tell me left or right or center. Green?"

"Green," Stiles says, pressing his face into the mattress, because now he's crying for some stupid reason (crying because Derek had said earlier that all he wants is to make Stiles feel good, and Stiles does. He’s never been the center of anyone's focus like this before. He feels selfish and wanted and transcendent.)

"Lick me again," he says, trying to sound firm.

Derek dives in like he'd been waiting for the invitation, but only for a few seconds. "Tell me how," Derek growls, pulling back for a moment. "Keep talking."

"Do the--the circle again, circles--" Derek's tongue starts out moving lightly, but presses harder and harder until Stiles feels like Derek's digging through to the core of him. Stiles mostly just says, "Yes," but he tries to be specific when he can. When Derek accidentally scrapes his beard against the sensitive skin, Stiles gasps and says, "Do that again. Your beard."

He's glad he has the headboard, then, because at first he pulls way--it hurts, it's rough on a place on his body that he's barely explored before, a part of his body that's only ever known pleasure, and pain there is so bad it's blinding.

Seconds later Derek scrapes him again and Stiles shouts, rough and loud, before he uses the leverage of his hands to push back against Derek's face.

"Lick me," Stiles says, "but do that, too, every so often do that."

"I’ve got it now,” Derek says. “Got you. So I want you to try and stay quiet until you come. Can you do that for me?"

"I don't know," Stiles gasps, because as soon as Derek finishes asking his question the tip of his tongue tickles at Stiles's opening.

"Try. Make sounds if you want to--no, if you need to--but no more words. Red, yellow, or green?"

"Green," he says.

After that he falls apart.

He's never been denied his own words before, and searching for them, for something to hold onto, leaves him with the memory of Derek saying Keep your hands there and I get to have this; which are the most important words Stiles can find right now.

Derek starts fucking Stiles with his tongue, and Stiles stops trying to hold back his orgasm. Derek growls with satisfaction when Stiles's hips begins to move, and the vibration makes every part of Stiles's body spasm for a second.

He wants to talk. He wants to swear at Derek, wants to tease him, but he--instead, he's just loud, and nonsensical, and honest. He'd be embarrassed at the sounds that are coming out of him but he can't think enough to filter them.

It's just him and Derek, and Derek wants to hear him.

Derek's very nice pillowcase is about to be ruined. Stiles is seconds away from coming, because Derek's hands are going to leave bruises again, and the irritation from his beard is going to last for days, and because when Derek pulls back to tell him something else, he moves a hand to press his thumb against Stiles's hole, like he'd known it hurt Stiles to be empty the last time Derek had pulled way (like Derek wants to push that thumb inside of Stiles, spit-slick and slow).

Stiles says, "Derek," and part of it's because he wants to say thank you or let me see your dick pretty please or you make me feel so good too, and then he just keeps saying Derek's name because he wants to come. His hands are slick with sweat but he's still push/pulling himself to get friction on his cock, to get the movement of Derek's tongue to imitate the rhythm he imagines will be there if Derek puts him on his belly like this again and fucks him.

Derek scrapes his beard over Stiles one last time, then fucks Stiles's hole with his tongue as hard as he can, twisting, pushing against the sides, driving into him until Stiles feels like he's going to die from it. All it takes is Derek humming in satisfaction, his thumbs stretching Stiles's hole even wider, and Stiles's dick goes off like a geyser.

He's never orgasmed without his hand on his dick before, and his right hand lets go of the headboard without thinking about it. Then Derek's hand is around his wrist, holding him down. Derek uses his other hand to stroke Stiles through the last throes of one of the best orgasms he's ever had.

He cries out at the loss of Derek's tongue, but then his body is seizing again, and Derek's bare chest presses against his back. He whimpers as his orgasm goes on, and on, until Derek kisses the back of his neck and stops stroking him.

"I took my hand off the rail," Stiles says dumbly, blinking at a world that's gone blurry around the edges. "You caught me." He flexes his hand in Derek's grip.

"It’s fine,” Derek says. “Just try not to do it again.” Stiles likes when Derek lies on top of him. He can feel Derek breathe. Can feel the vibrations of his voice. "We'll work on it some other time." Gently, Derek pries Stiles's other hand from the rung he's still clinging to, and rolls him onto his back.

Derek licks him clean again. Throws the dirty pillow on the floor. "You like the taste of my come," Stiles says, unnecessarily. He blinks some more. The world's still a bit blurry. "I came for you."

"Yeah, you did," Derek says with a smile, crawling up the bed until he's lying by Stiles's side. "Put both your hands on your chest?" Stiles does, and Derek wraps one hand around both of Stiles's wrists. It's not a secure grip, Derek's fingers don't touch, but it makes Stiles focus on his body, on Derek, instead of the whirl that the rest of the world has become.

"You did so good," Derek murmurs into his ear. "So good. So responsive. So strong." Strong, which is not a word Stiles would have come up with. He rolls it over in his mind while Derek kisses his shoulder, and decides he likes it.

It's a long time before the world comes back into focus, instead of just Derek and the water Derek tells him to drink and the comfortable positions Derek moves him into and the praise spilling out of Derek's mouth; more words than Stiles has ever heard him use before.

"You said I made you hard," Stiles says, things coming back to him in bits and pieces. He scooches himself over on the bed to check for evidence. Derek's jeans are still on; his dick is visibly hard inside of them. "You don’t have to do anything,” Stiles says, “but it would make me feel good if you came with me."

Derek doesn’t do anything for a long time. His hand is back around Stiles's wrists; they both like when Derek holds them there. Eventually, he lets go and stands up. Unbuttons the top of his jeans. Unzips them; every movement separate and deliberate. He pulls his jeans off leg by leg, then takes his boxers off after that. Standing back up after taking his boxers off is the only thing he does slowly. Revealing the impossible beauty of his chest, the dip of muscle and bone around his hips, the dark hair on his thighs and between his legs. And his dick, which is hard, red, and pretty.

"I want to lick your dick," Stiles says, his brain-to-mouth filter having wandered off at some point.

Derek gets on the bed, on his knees, next to Stiles. "As long as you do your best for me, I won't ever be disappointed."

"Green," Stiles says softly, because he's always been good at trying, and he thinks Derek might understand even when Stiles fails. He thinks if anyone could understand that, it would be Derek. "Now come, please. For me. On me?"

"On you?" Derek asks.

Stiles wriggles on the bed until he's stretched out fully. His hands are still crossed in the center of his chest, but after a moment, he lifts them over his head and holds onto the rungs again. "On me. But only if you want to--you said orgasms don't feel good for you sometimes?"

Derek stares at Stiles, eyes running up and down the lines of his body, and then he just looks at Stiles's hands.

"This feels good," Derek says. "I want to do this."

It takes him a while. He starts slow, teases himself, plays with his balls, rubs at just the head when he gets too close. Stiles relaxes into the bed and watches with half-closed eyes, feeling completely satisfied.

At some point, Stiles has an idea, and says, "Will you say my name when you come?"

Apparently, that does it for Derek, who growls it out immediately--Stiles, just once--and comes, on Stiles's chest, his arms, his neck. He strokes himself through it, panting, bent over Stiles's body. It looks like it hurts, but in what seems like a safe, normal, feels-too-good kind of way.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, when Derek is panting, but has stopped moving. His body is curled like a parenthesis bracketing one side of Stiles’s body.

Derek nods, then licks his come from Stiles’s body and kisses him with the taste of it on his lips.

"You came," Stiles says, "and it's not even Wednesday."

"Stop being smug. It's unattractive." Derek puts his hands back around Stiles's wrists, carefully, bringing them back down to rest at his sides. "You're too skinny," Derek says. "Stay here so I can make you eat dinner." Derek hesitates before he stands up. "Okay?" he asks.

Stiles smiles. The world looks the same as it had before Derek had caveman-carried him to bed. Not sharper, not blurrier. A bit darker, since the sun's gone down. Stiles feels different, though.

"Great," he says. He curls up on his side and watches Derek move around the kitchen, completely naked, and lets his worries go for a while, like a stack of papers that no one needs to read, like easy questions someone else can answer for a while.

*

Feedback is appreciated! (This is it for today, but there's more written in the series already.)